


Between the Lines

by Notabluemaia



Series: Homecoming [5]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Pumpkins, Schmoop, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-09
Updated: 2004-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notabluemaia/pseuds/Notabluemaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the size that matters, but rather what one does with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Lines

 

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo said nervously, “I’ve never seen one quite so big before.” No, indeed he had not, and while his reaction to what lay before him did not quite rise to the level of _alarm_ , he was… well, _concerned_. And though he regretted blurting it out quite so bluntly, now, as he looked again, his more considered opinion was that it was still the largest… ever… and oh, he could not bear for his Sam to be disappointed…

“No. Nor have I.” Sam’s voice was hoarse from their recent endeavours, and, if truth be told, from some considerable nervousness of his own. He glanced at it, and then at Frodo’s, and from there up to his face, and even in the pale, pre-dawn light, he could see the stress lines furrowing his brow. Oh, dear. If his usually unruffled Frodo was this worried... He dared another look.

Yes, it was indeed big – ruddy smooth flesh swollen large, glistening with fine droplets, smeared dry where, holding so tightly, they had brushed against its firmness, slipping past. The great head seemed to leer at him now, making a mockery of all their efforts to this point, promising failure to all their efforts ahead.

“Sam. I think it may be bigger…”

“Don’t say it!” It seemed to Sam to fill his vision with its girth and its portent for the day before them; in this moment, all the world was this – and his master, pale and shivering before him.

“But we have to acknowledge the facts, Sam – and it is _certainly_ a good deal bigger than mine.” A simple statement, the tone rueful.

“Aye, that’s as may be, but it ain’t only size as matters!” Sam would ever stoutly defend all his master’s graceful proportions, any where, any time, but especially now. He wrapped his arms around Frodo, pulling him close, and as one, they trembled together in the chill and dark. The fine sheen of exertion had cooled on Frodo’s skin, but heat still simmered below the surface, flowing under Sam’s searching hands.

“There’s plenty room for quality, and a sensitive touch, and that’s what makes all the difference, a sight more’n ‘big’ or not!” A stalwart hug made clear to Frodo the additional fact that there were other things to think on, besides comparative size and placement…

“Hmm. A sensitive touch? Is _that_ what is called for here, Samwise?” Frodo smiled, and Sam leaned close, and now there was no image before Sam any greater or more important than this fair face aglow with love. Nerves tingled swiftly from distress to desire, and Frodo’s lips curved against Sam’s cheek, moving lightly across to nuzzle warm breath behind his ear. One hand reached down – down and around, to pull pliant hips close, fitting them together – as his other slipped between bellies melded together, and boldly took his Sam in hand.

“Oh! Only the _most_ sensitive… there’s a touch that takes the best and opens it, to make something fine and new… Ohh, Frodo!” There were indeed other things that must still be tended – but perhaps they would wait, just a while, for this oh-so-familiar touch, definitely the _most sensitive_ … just there. And there. “Ohhhh…” Sam rubbed small circles upon Frodo’s back, waist, and below… as he matched the lazy, relaxed rotations of narrow hips pressed surely to his own.

A whisper in his ear, soft and low, and husky with the promise of need renewed. “You reassure me, Sam. Perhaps my ‘touch’ will make a difference there, as well. Oh, Sam…” Frodo’s breath was coming faster now, in time with the pulse of his heart lying so close to Sam’s breast, the pulse of Sam, in his embrace. And his voice was filled with confidence, and all the assurance of love, as he whispered into Sam’s ear, a little breathlessly.

“But Sam, I do think yours might be at least as big, and every bit as sensitive…” A gentle stroke, followed by one firmer, as if to confirm. “Yes… I do think… _Mmm!_ ” Thoughts fled as flesh heated, hardened, and rose again beneath his loving touch. A kiss stilled Frodo’s words with tender seeking; no question about anything else, and no uncertainty here about what might be _enough_. Soft lips opened to searching tongues, tangling, twining, and Frodo’s leg twined around Sam’s hip, beguiling pleasure once more.

“Oh. Oh… oh, love, this, this… yes…” Sam lifted his hips to Frodo’s, cupped his rounded bottom with one hand and laced the other through thick curls, curving it tenderly to bring their foreheads together; their breath heated damp between them, eyes open to see only each other, too close for detail, but their entire world before each of them.

Memory flared – from this moment to the last evening’s fancy and the dark night’s fulfillment – finding semblance and parallel in _all_ that they had done, side by side, together again. Oh, yes, in both fancy and fulfilment, such sensitive designs, swirled, first with purposeful intent, and later, feverishly, upon firm smooth flesh, and then upon softer, yielding beneath fingertips; curved hands resting lightly, then gripping hard.

And finally, lips bitten in concentration, breaths indrawn upon sighs of wonder – graceful penetrations stroked carefully deep, sensuously shallow – tracing the scriven patterns, drawn tenderly by hand and fingertips upon skin and flesh. Who could know that such joyful laughter would merge in memory with such breathless joy, that all that could be imagined lit such a fire within, ever burning flame, renewed again in flesh and flesh?

“Remember?” A sigh, here and now, though too sated for more. Yet.

“Everything. Always. And you?”

“Every touch, every look – the feel of you, the sounds you made… Oh, Sam, after so long…” Too long a parting, and every minute since too short, for all that it must hold, though such a lot of _holding_ every minute since his return had _held_ …

“Aye. Too long by far!” Sam pulled Frodo close into an embrace so tight that Frodo gasped, a little whuff of air to Sam’s throat. He laughed softly, and pressed his hips more tightly to Sam’s, to heat so hardened now that he gasped again.

“Oh, Sam! Oh, my love… but I think maybe not quite long enough, yet, for an old hobbit like me, since…” And a little thrust of his hips and a kiss to Sam’s lips made the memory of ‘since’ rise even clearer for Sam, if not yet for Frodo. “Patience, my Samwise!”

“Not old, and plenty big, both you and your creation – and we’ve all the time in the world, now – though maybe not here, and not yet!” Sam tore his gaze from Frodo’s and leaned back against the thick, central pole as he looked around them. Yes, there was a brightening outside in the east, and now he could see their quickened breath, puffed white between them, and the dark shapes of the cart and the pony, shifting patiently in her traces.

Frodo’s hands pressed a lingering promise to him before sliding up and around his waist, and Sam sighed, laid his head to Frodo’s brow, and then shifted, rearranging himself for the task ahead.

“I daresay we need to hurry, if it’s to be here when they come – and after all we rushed last night for it…” Frodo stepped back from Sam’s reluctantly loosened embrace, lips curved in a soft smile.

Sam sought a kiss hastily, catching Frodo’s smooth cheek instead as he turned to see the sunglow warming the horizon. He clasped Frodo close; a quick hug, and a look exchanged. Yes, together they could do this once more; they’d managed to load it into the cart, and there was no reason they couldn’t _un_ load it as well. Except, of course, that _then_ they had not been up the whole night.

“Shall we?” A nod toward the cart, one brow cocked questioningly; Frodo led as they picked their way carefully back through the shadows, returning to the cart to collect and carry their other load. “And, Sam, whether _yours_ is bigger or not, makes no difference to me, and shouldn’t to you, either. It’s the quality. You just told me that yourself!”

“Aye. I did, at that. And to that I’ll hold!” Sam clambered up into the cart bed. “I’ll heave it to the edge, and you just watch’n tell me so’s I don’t shove too far – Frodo, don’t you be trying to take it yourself!” _He wouldn’t… but it’s not like he don’t take on more’n he can bear sometimes…_

“Sam! Anyone could see that this is too big to be _mine!_ ” Frodo’s voice fairly bubbled with good humour, though he watched Sam closely as he climbed.

“Frodo, you know what I mean! Don’t try to _lift_ it, not _claim_ it! As if you couldn’t claim _anything_ of mine in a heartbeat…” Sam grumbled cheerfully, and shook his head; he did know that his Frodo was too sensible to try to carry _this_ thing by himself. He wiggled himself past it to take up a good position on the back side.

“Much as I was gone this autumn, everyone in Hobbiton would _know_ it wasn’t mine – I couldn’t have grown it nearly so well even if I _had_ been here, and I still think you gave _mine_ some extra attention for me, in my absence!” Frodo watched closely as Sam bent from his knees, and put his back into the push, and with a grunt of effort, skidded it close to the edge. “There! Stop. That’s almost as far as it can go, without falling right out – I wouldn’t even dare try to catch it, big as it is!”

“No, but there’s not too many things too big for the both of us, right?”

“No, Sam, we know better than to think that.” Frodo’s voice remained light and teasing, but he couldn’t help reaching a cautionary hand up to Sam as he shifted precariously, around and over it to the narrow back edge of the cart. Frowning, he hopped down to stand at Frodo’s side.

“Hmm. It was one thing to hoist it up there together – but Sam, I don’t think we _can_ pull it out and support it both, not from down here. Not without risk of dropping it. And then, all for naught.”

“Tell you what – you get up there behind it, push it the last bit, and I’ll brace it when it’s out far enough to tip into my arms, resting still on the cart. Then you come round, and together we’ll lift it out the rest of the way, put it in its place, and be out of here ourselves!”

“Good.” Frodo climbed lightly onto the bed and squeezed himself around the bulk; he squatted behind it, to use the long muscles in his legs as much as he could. But even as wiry lean as he was, it took most of his strength to push it the rest of the short way across the wooden boards to the edge – until with a ripping sound, it hung up. A splinter caught in its skin?

“Blast it! Sam. It doesn’t want to—”

But suddenly, it _did_ move, and move fast, spilling heavily into Sam’s waiting arms.

“Oh! There’s a load!” He staggered a pace or two, trying to lean back beneath what he could not encircle, supporting it against his rounded belly, bracing himself, muscular thighs flexed taut.

With a cry, Frodo leapt to the ground and took some of the weight from Sam. They exchanged a look across its girth, and a sigh of relief.

“It needs both of us, even strong as you are, Sam! I tell you, if this is _not_ the biggest, I definitely would not want to carry the one that _is!_ ”

“Nor would I – do you have a good grip there?” Sam looked at Frodo with no little concern; this thing likely weighed a good bit more than he did. But he was strong…

“Yes – I wouldn’t want to go far with it, but just over there, next to mine.” Quite a distance still; the cart would not fit through the gap in the chairs and tables set before the tents and main displays, and they could bring it no closer.

Frodo could feel that Sam had taken most of the weight and had arranged his grasp so that it was tilted towards him, his hands beneath it. Well, that made some sense, for Frodo knew Sam’s strength. But he wouldn’t have him walking backwards, as well; he manoeuvered himself into that position. Peering over his shoulder into the gloom, Frodo guided them and their burden down the aisle.

A circle of lantern light marked the space, right next to Frodo’s, for Sam to claim, amongst all the tiers of prior entries. Their bulk confined its dim glow, casting shadows to loom upon the tent’s billowing walls. Fabric snapped and flapped, and tent poles creaked, but at least here was shelter from the brisk breeze.

Neither the lantern nor the faint glow rising in the east could illumine the edge of the platform inside the tent; Frodo felt for the ledge with one foot, confirmed with a look that Sam was braced for the tipped weight, and stepped up cautiously, then toed the next riser, hurrying, knowing that now, at this angle, Sam must support the bulk of their burden.

They were both breathing hard as they squeezed past an alarmingly large, scowling face, and Frodo started as cold dew chilled his calf. With a final grunt of effort, they lowered Sam’s to the wood planks, between Frodo’s and the one that proved the biggest of all, its proud size obvious, once Sam’s was actually set next to it.

“Sam, it may _be_ bigger, but yours has a much better shape. Rounder. And I think that yours has the finer colour, too. And look, there are far too many of those brownish welts – yours has none of those!” Frodo stood back and eyed Sam’s as objectively as he could. “And the face! No comparison. His is cranky, and ill tempered, not scary at all! Yours is an absolute fright, and all the more sinister for being jolly, too!”

“Well, I think you may be a little partial… but we surely had a good time with them, didn’t we?”

“Indeed we did. And an even better time after, wouldn’t you agree, Sam?” Frodo took Sam’s hand, and brought it to his lips, kissing the work-calloused fingertips. “And I can hardly believe that we were able to complete them both, as rushed as we were by my trip. If you had not already gathered them from the garden, and scooped out the seeds of both for us, for me, we might not have finished in time… at least not in time for what else we wanted to do, even more.” Frodo’s smile promised that more yet was wanted, and soon.

“I knew you’d not want to miss Festival, that you’d be back for it, just like you said – and I didn’t want to miss the beauty of yours. I’ve thought yours the best since you first came, and I was just a lad. Never a one like the year before, and never one like any other I’d seen, all aglow with that light shining through – I still don’t know _how_ you do that, and I’ve seen you make them.”

“Hmm. It’s all in the hands, Sam!” Frodo’s laugh rippled in the air between them.

“I can’t deny that… yours _do_ have a gift to them… and maybe you could show me? Again?”

“Soon as we’re home. Unless… you’d like _here?_ ” Frodo’s voice lowered; he pressed himself close, and pressed a kiss to Sam’s nose, his lips, murmuring, “Hmmm, Sam… I may not be as old as I thought…”

“No, I didn’t think so! Tempting as that sounds, and you look, there’s too much light already, way too much cold, and not near enough privacy for what _I_ have in mind for you and those hands of yours…” The lingering kiss he gave to softly yielding, warmly inviting lips allowed the sun to crest the horizon before they opened their eyes again, smiled, took deep breaths, and reluctantly pushed each other away.

“Mmmm. Where does time go? Still think ‘not here,’ Sam?”

“Oh! Frodo… The judges will be here as soon as the sun’s up; we only just squeaked these here in time! One last thing, though…”

Sam bent to lift the carved lid by its curling dried stem, reaching into the humid orange depths to ensure that the candle was still upright. He turned his attention to Frodo’s, checking its candle as well, then stood back and looked at it thoughtfully. He brushed a kiss to Frodo’s lips, and took one of his hands between his own, cradling it gently.

“I do think yours is the most beautiful, far and away, especially when it’s lit from within.”

And it was. Smaller than Sam’s, much smaller than the one that would command the prize for being simply the biggest; it was very different from all the rest lined up in the tiers, visible now that the sun had started to light the horizon. Big enough, it was to Sam’s eye – and in fact, bigger than many of the others – but its beauty resulted from Frodo’s design. Rather than the traditional angular faces cut into each of the others’ thick flesh, Frodo’s was all sinuous curves, sculpted in the round, in some places cut clear through to the steady light inside, in others only deep enough to allow a golden glow to shine through paper thin flesh.

Sam knew the meaning, now, of the flowing patterns swirled across and etched throughout this generous fruit, grown in the very garden he’d tended so long and so well. The Elvish runes told Frodo’s love, a new poem spelled there every year for all to see, even before Sam could read its meaning – there or in his eyes; before ever he had known his master’s soft sighs of passion in the dark, or the tenderness of his touch… beneath, above, between, _within…_

His silent message had been right there under Sam’s eyes at every Festival since he’d grown up, long before he’d known its import, even when he’d sat close by his Mr. Frodo’s side, watching his silken dark head bent to his task, curls falling forward across his cheeks as he inked intricate lines with deft strokes and graceful flicks of his calligraphy brush; carved delicate grooves and sinuous slices with a slim, sharp knife. Unobserved, Sam had stared in fascination – the nimble fingers, the twist and curve of supple wrists, the reddened pressure point where white teeth had bitten into his full lower lip as Frodo concentrated. And from his hands, beauty took shape, translating the prosaic into something fine and rare – yet never diminishing its own raw nature.

But now Sam knew every word, and had long known a lover so very beloved, so deeply loving, known the hidden depths of sensuality, seen by none but himself save in the words and songs he crafted and seldom shared – and in this, this lovely thing he had made last evening, brought here, together, this very morn – reminder now of the love they had made all through the night.

“So beautiful…” Now, and then: the poem, the carving, the candlelight’s glow through translucent skin – and Frodo, looking up to him as he had laid aside the sharp blade, his eyes shimmering as he offered his words, his art, and himself.

“For you, Sam. Always for you.” And he had taken Sam’s hand, and kissed it, lips soft upon the back, heated upon the palm, a sensuous suggestion pulling upon each finger as he watched Sam’s eyes drift closed, his head fall back; and with his other hand, he had pulled aside Sam’s robe, and laid his hand over his heart.

“Come here.” Sam sank back upon the hearthrug, pulling Frodo down upon his breast, slipping his hands beneath his loosened robe, to the warmth of smooth skin and the muscled roundness of his flanks, already flexing a gentle rhythm against him. He raised his head, tipping his face to meet Frodo’s, opening to Frodo’s seeking lips, softly kneading his, as his tongue pushed deeply past the invitation offered by Sam’s mouth. Sam eyes fell closed, as those lovely, gifted hands spread aside the warm folds of fabric at his hips to press heated flesh to his nakedness.

And his thighs fell open, and Frodo sank between, his body flowing as graceful as ink over Sam’s. Firm pressure nudged low and insistent to hidden pleasure, as he encircled Sam, his hand proving here the love he’d scriven elsewhere, translating into loving touch the Elvish words that Sam had earlier watched; watched, and tingled as though Frodo’s every stroked and curling line then, were upon his own taut flesh.

“Now, love?” A breathless whisper, urgent with need.

And a hoarse reply: “Don’t wait longer – oh Frodo, I want you _now!_ Here, love…”

Watching Frodo’s face, Sam knew their shared desire; he reached blindly for what they’d left ready, as much a part of their ritual as poetry and design, fruit and carving and candle. Breath fast and harsh, bodies more than ready, Sam stroked balm between them, and Frodo, sighing, thrust into his slickened hand. Their hands joined, and Frodo’s smoothed salve from himself, from Sam’s hand upon him, then reached where it was most desired and needed, upon Sam, arching firm up to his own belly. And below, in secret heat, Frodo’s fingers, so sensitive with quill or brush, deft with love here, swirled round, pushing past tightness, inwards… to touch tenderly...

Sam groaned with need, and embraced narrow hips with strong thighs raised high, reached to hold and help as Frodo, leaning up on one elbow, held himself, guided… and pushed, sighing, with almost unendurable slow pressure, into Sam’s very depths, and again made them one flesh.

Frodo gasped with the joy of being within his Sam, being _home_ again. He rested there, savouring and giving, and then pulled away and out only so far as to let himself sink deep again, and again, into that most loving welcome, his hand with Sam’s stroking around Sam’s yearning heat rising, pushing up to him – till Frodo arched, a soaring curve above as Sam’s hips raised to take him, contain him, ground him. And Sam called _Frodo!_ and pulsed his seed to Frodo’s belly, as Frodo, beyond all control, buried deep within, cried out, gave back his own, and fell to lie panting, clasped to Sam’s breast.

And now, here in the crisp dawn air, they stood together after a night replete with love, a union blessed each year by word and deed, gazing upon the proofs of their ritual passion and renewal, brought forth to their community, revealing truth to eyes that might see. And to Sam, it bespoke this year as well, all the joy of his Frodo’s safe return, words etched upon his heart more deeply than ever he’d written upon any season’s entry.

Yes, ‘big’ might be all that would be weighed today, a practicality, on wooden scales with measured rocks set against carved fruit, tradition far older than theirs. And though his own might be bigger - though not the biggest, it seemed - ‘big’ alone was so much less than the immensity of what Frodo did… had done… and what he _was…_ and the shimmer of candlelight was only a glimpse of what glowed within him.

_A clear light for eyes to see that can…_

“Frodo…” Sam sighed his name, and Frodo looked to him, love and understanding in his eyes, his face as fair as the coming dawn.

“It is all right, Sam… I am back, and I am not going anywhere else, any time soon. I love you, here or gone, now – and always.”

“Home… you’re home! Let’s go home, and we’ll rest a bit, and then let me welcome you again.” Sam held Frodo close, murmuring warm against his cheek.

“Oh, Sam! I want your ‘welcome’ – want _you_ – again. We have done all we need do, and Festival can wait a while, now these are here.” Frodo laid his hand along Sam’s jaw, and gently turned his face back towards him. “Sam, you do know that I think _yours_ the finest, don’t you? Even if another is bigger? And I know you love mine, despite it being so much smaller, for what it _means…_ Oh, Sam, I can’t bear for you to be disappointed!”

“Never, ever, not at all, Frodo – there isn’t anything to _this_ part of Festival that’s more’n some fun – the only part that’s _really_ important to me is what we already did… together –” And their eyes met in joyful acknowledgement, as heat flushed cheeks, and rose elsewhere, with memory and anticipation. “— _not_ who has the biggest on that staging tonight!”

“Sam-love – if the measure were of heart and just plain goodness, or of how much I love you, you would win _every_ time—”

“And if it was for sheer beauty, so would you! My sweet Frodo, you thinking _that_ is all that matters to me, besides us going home for a little more celebration…”

“Mmm… So, Samwise… you are not bothered at all, and there is no consolation necessary, despite _not_ having the biggest this year?” Frodo’s voice was husky, and offered much more than mere comfort as silken hands spelled a more sensual language across Sam’s back.

“Oh! Hmm. Not bothered by _that_ , but maybe bothered a bit by a certain hobbit, and I think there’s _plenty_ of consolation may be needed for that… just as soon as we’re home…”

And Frodo’s kiss, pressed to Sam’s laughing lips, promised that any ‘disappointment’ would find far more than mere consolation in the biggest and best of all their annual Festival celebrations, yet to come.

_Finis_

“ _A clear light for eyes to see that can…_ ” Line quoted from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , by J.R.R.Tolkien.

 

 

 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)   



End file.
